John Mackey's NFL legacy resonates in fight for retired player benefits

July 9, 2011|By George Diaz, COMMENTARY

John Mackey went from Glory Days to Glory Daze.

He was a 6-foot, 2-inch man-child in his late 60s, prone to silly things like hoarding candy from others at a day care center.

Frontotemporal dementia is the medical term. It's a mental condition similar to Alzheimer's disease.

Mackey died on July 6, becoming a poignant footnote in the ongoing multi-billion dollar money grab between NFL players and owners.

It's hard to pick a side in this war of millionaires, vying for a greater share of the $9 billion yearly revenue the league generates. They are Hatfields and McCoys, geared up in Gucci watches and Armani suits. It's not a scrum involving any blue-collar warriors wearing Kmart blue-light specials. But it should be.

Retired players are essentially fighting for scraps as both sides try to hammer out a new collective bargaining agreement.

A group of retired players recently filed a class-action complaint against the owners and current players in federal court, demanding a voice in the mediation sessions. This is business as usual in the NFL.

The league doesn't necessarily like to take care of its elders, unless there are threats of litigation and lots of screaming and yelling. The NFL once vested players after five years – and surprise, surprise – you saw a lot of players getting cut in their fifth season, depriving them of benefits. The vested period now stands at a four years for players who retired before 1993, and three years for those who retired after 1993.

"There's a little more than 3,000 people who get an NFL check, and that includes players who retired and have a disability," said Mike McBath, a former Buffalo Bills defensive end who heads up the Central Florida Chapter of the NFL Retired Players Union. "That's not many people when you look at the history of football."

Mackey – who had a formidable career with the Baltimore Colts as a prototype modern era tight end with marvelous receiving skills – was among those on the front lines, railing against these type of injustices.

He was president of the players' union in the early 1970s, and led the first-ever players' strike in 1970. Under his reign, Mackey led a successful antitrust challenge to a league rule ("The Rozelle Rule") requiring teams that signed a free agent to compensate that player's former team.

The irony is, retired players like Mackey were left scrambling for leftovers. Mackey's contemporaries, Pro Bowlers like Herb Adderley of the Green Bay Packers, were barely getting by: Adderley was once getting a pension of only $126 a month.

Once again, Mackey led the charge for change. In 2007, the NFL adopted the "88 Plan" – honoring Mackey's jersey number – which provides retired players up to $88,000 per year for medical and custodial care resulting from dementia, including Alzheimer's and Parkinson's. Those conditions were once excluded from NFL insurance plans.

It was a blessing for Mackey and his wife Sylvia, who had gone back to work at 56, as a flight attendant, to help pay for the family's spiraling medical and day-care bills.

That's the greatest highlight from the Mackey legacy, even though his twice-tipped 75-yard touchdown in the 1971 Super Bowl remains one of his signature plays. He once ran over at least seven Detroit Lions defenders to score a touchdown.

But the most recent visuals of his life were equally frightening. Mackey forgot conversations within a matter of minutes. He couldn't remember old friends and teammates. At times, he behaved like a child – once forcibly keeping his candy from an 80-year-old who wanted some too.

Even though there was never a direct link between Mackey's mental state and 10 years of pounding and punishment as an NFL player, consider this:

A study commissioned by the National Football League in 2009 found that former players, between the ages of 30 and 49, were 19 times more likely to suffer from Alzheimer's disease or similar memory-related diseases than the national population.

Mackey's illness silenced his voice, but not the cause.

"If today's players cannot help these players, shame on you," former Chicago Bears great Gale Sayers said recently.

The legacy of No. 88 keeps rumbling on, cutting a path for his brothers who aren't trying to be greedy, but merely asking just compensation for their pain and suffering.